


The Foolish Knight

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Incest, Jousting, Knighting, Middle Ages, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Jon wants to be just like his father Rhaegar; a strong and brave knight. When a tournament is called in Princess Daenerys' honour, he decides he must win her the crown of winter roses. But first he must find someone willing to knight him - and perhaps learn more about his father in the process.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 65
Kudos: 325





	The Foolish Knight

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the Game of Thrones universe with some historic medieval twists at places - just because I love doing research! It assumes an alternative outcome of Robert's Rebellion, and a Targaryen royalty that doesn't take too kindly to troubles caused by their own. Hopefully, it'll all be explained and make sense from reading. Have fun!

It was early morning. Jon could feel the sun baking his armour. His tunic was drenched in sweat, and dry skin peeled off his lips. He licked them. It made no difference - trapped in the tight heat of his helmet, there was no respite to be found. He could smell metal and blood in the air, and hear the shouting from spectators in the distance. Their cries echoed between the shiny breastplates of the knights. When Jon peered through his visor, the boy next to him met his gaze. His gauntlet closed more tightly around his weapon, and Jon knew he felt it too: the excitement for jousting.

Trumpets blared. Shouting turned to cheering. As the boys in front of Jon began to march, he followed, the greaves heavy on his shins. They were too big. He felt himself stumble.

“Go on!” the man behind him urged. He thrusted his hand to Jon’s back and forced him forward. “Haven’t got all day!”

Jon grimaced and tried to look over his shoulder, but the fit of his helmet would not allow it. Instead he was dragged along by the others, their armours hammering together in a series of hollow bangs. Through the slits in his visor, he could see them; the jumping Tully fish engraved in shimmering silver, the proud black Baratheon stag raising its head on a freshly painted shield, the raging golden lion of the Lannisters tearing its way across a boy’s plackart. These were fine houses, and fine men.

_But I am just as good as them,_ Jon thought.

They edged their way onto the field. Banners snapped in the wind. Atop the whitewashed stalls raised the day before, men and women and children watched the group walk past. Jon knew they were cheering for their own, ladies waving at their lovers, and little boys betting on the outcome. But he imagined they were all there for _him_ : the men admired his strength, and the women called for his success, and the kids all stacked their copper on his win.

Jon held his head higher. He raised his hand in a greeting to the crowd. _If only Father could see me now,_ he thought, his heart throbbing with pride as he lined up amongst the knights, all of them shuffling nervously on the beaten ground. He remembered him in moments: wisps of his pale hair fluttering in the wind as they walked the woods, and the strength in his deep purple eyes when he watched him fight, and the rough touch of his hand when he brushed the drying blood off his face. Rhaegar had been admired for his skills in battle. _And so will I._

But there was another wave of silver. As Jon lifted his eyes from the common folk to the raised seats before him, he saw a young woman. Her bright hair was long and wavy, pushed back beneath a thin white shawl that fell from her golden coronet. Her dress was midnight blue with fur trimmings and golden detailing, and her lips pink and plump. _Princess Daenerys._ He knew his aunt at once, though he sensed she did not recognise him. In this armour, he was no one to her.

_For now,_ Jon reminded himself and licked his lips once more.

A man broke free from the ladies’ bench and stood tall before them. He was thin and sharp-faced, his black hair brushed back and his moustache tremouring in the wind. He clasped his hands together at his front. He sent the group a slick smile. “We welcome you, brave knights,” he called, “to this Vespers Tourney.”

The men next to Jon hammered their shield. Jon’s eyes flickered around in confusion. As the sound of gauntlets knocking against wood roared, he joined in, his knuckles striking the black bear growling on a green backdrop. _Here we stand,_ he thought, and the noise seemed to drum up his excitement, his blood flushing his cheeks, _and here we’ll stay._

The sound died out as suddenly as it had started. Jon’s hand was the last to fall to his side. He closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. The old metal creaked.

“You are all new knights who have been welcomed into the Order of Chivalry,” the man continued, his eyes scouring the men. Some were as tall and broad as oxes, others short and shivering like newborn calves. “I trust today’s tourney will give you a taste of the battles yet to come.”

“Ser Lancel Lannister,” the man called, and the boy Jon had locked eyes with earlier pulled off his helmet. A crown of blonde hair fell from its constraint, the wind immediately picking at the locks, throwing them around as he tilted his head upwards.

“Ser Podrick Payne,” he shouted, and a shorter man nodded his head, though his helmet remained on. His chest carried the emblem of a blazing sun. Jon could not remember the house.

“Ser Robin Arryn!” The boy’s sword slipped from his scabbard as he bowed. He clumsily retrieved it from the ground, brushed the dirt off the steel, and awkwardly sunk it back into his belt. There was a snicker from the crowd. In their bemused faces, Jon read the truth; a title bought with gold not skill. He could almost feel sorry for the boy - was he not next in line.

The man’s eyes peered down at him. He called: “Ser,” but nothing more, a flicker of confused curiosity taking over his face. The spectators were still muttering about Lady Arryn’s son, but nervous sweat slickened Jon’s back all the same.

Jon wasn’t sure what to do. He held forward his shield, hammered its bottom into the ground, and knelt behind it.

The black bear shined in the sun. The man’s lips parted in a wry smile. “Ah, a Mormont?” he asked. “I do not know your name, Ser.”

Jon breathed in the hot air. Through his visor, he could see the ground below him. The grass had been trampled flat by the hooves of horses. Soon, blood would water the earth and give it strength to grow once more. “It is Jon,” Jon called. His words seemed trapped by the metal. He tried to look up without straightening from his position, but all he could see were the ends of his black curls, the hair flattened against his clammy skin.

“Jon?” the man repeated and, when Jon nodded, he asked: “Jon Mormont?”

“No, my Lord,” Jon said. The benches had quieted. He could sense the people watching him, their ears perked. He wondered if Daenerys was listening too.

The man leaned onto the edge of the stand. He sent him a patient look. “Then what, Ser?”

_“Jon Snow,”_ a man roared, and Jon gasped as the helmet was pulled off his head.

The sun was bright. It prickled his eyes and made him blink at the light. As sweat bashed off his lashes, he shielded his sight with his gauntlet and stared up at the man who had approached him from behind. Glaring back down at him was Jeor Mormont.

“Jon Snow,” the man repeated and spat at the ground. There was fury in his eyes. “And he is no _ser_ \- he is a squire, Lord Baelish, and nothing more.”

As a murmur went through the spectators, Jon reached for the helmet. “Give me that!” he demanded, but the old knight held it out of reach.

“This tourney is for _knights,_ boy! You have not been dubbed.”

“I am old enough!” Jon protested. He was now back on his feet, but without the helmet he no longer felt tall and great like his late father. He felt short, and young, and foolish. The flicker of laughter breaking out amongst the audience only caused his cheeks to redden. “There are younger men amongst us,” he continued with a glare at Lancel, “and those of _less skill.”_ He didn’t manage to see Robin. The boy had scurried into hiding behind Podrick.

Jeor’s face was red with fury. “It doesn’t matter what you think,” he reminded Jon, “but what _I_ decide. Do you believe years alone make a man?”

“I have been a good squire!”

“A good squire would not steal a knight’s armour and parade it as his own!” Jeor’s voice boomed. It seemed to grow with the blowing wind, his words carrying far across the field. As Jon’s fists clenched in embarrassment, the old man grabbed him by the bevor and dragged him back across the grounds. “Forgive me, Lord Baelish,” Jeor said through gritted teeth, and he did another low nod, “Your Highness.”

Though he could see her moving in the stands, Jon averted his eyes not to catch Daenerys’ gaze. As he stumbled at Jeor’s feet, he felt the scornful looks from the gallery of lords and ladies, and heard the mocking shouts of the common folk.

“A jester in armour is still a fool!” a lady cried.

“Your father would be ashamed!” a boy joined.

Jon turned so swiftly that he kicked up the dry dirt. “Who said that?” he demanded, but Jeor’s grip on his bevor was stronger than his anger. As laughter rolled through the air, he wrestled him out of the field and down toward the meadow.

The space outside the city gates was normally empty, but the tournament had caused merchants to gather. As far as the eye could see, market stalls dotted the hills and there, by the forest edge, the grand canopies of wealthy houses rose into the air. Their banners fluttered in the wind above their campsites - a snarling wolf, a stark kraken, a golden rose. Jeor didn’t let go of Jon until they were halfway there, the sound of horses neighing and weapons clashing growing louder than the bellowing salesmen offering ale.

“You’re a fool, Snow,” the old man said, turning Jon to face him as he sent him an incredulous look. “Who gave you the right to enter the tourney?”

“I may be a Snow, but I am still a man,” Jon spat back. His face was still burning, but no longer from shame. Being laughed at only made his jaw clench. _But mentioning my father,_ Jon thought, his hands twisting at his hilt, _that brings me fury._ “I was born with the right to wield a weapon.”

“Were you born with nothing between your ears?” Jeor asked. As Jon’s hands clenched again, he reached over and drew his sword before the boy could. The steel glimmered in the sun. Jeor growled: “What is this?”

“A sword,” Jon replied haughtily.

“Did you intend to kill?” the man asked as he thrusted it back into Jon’s hands. He pointed at the edge. “It has not been blunted.”

Jon bitterly looked at the sharp tip of the sword. He felt his arrogance slowly seep out of him as he muttered: “I forgot.”

“You forgot,” Jeor repeated. His voice was tired. As Jon put the sword away, he shook his head with a sigh. “I can’t knight you, boy.”

“It was a mistake,” Jon said dismissively. Sweat was running down his face. Fighting was one thing - battle made you hot, especially when trapped in metal, but standing in the bashing sun felt almost worse, Jon thought. He wished he had his helmet on to hide away in. With his hair stuck to his face and redness creeping up his neck, he knew he looked _a boy._ “I’ve been a good squire,” he repeated his earlier statement.

“You have,” Jeor admitted, making Jon’s eyes snap up to meet his own. His gaze had softened. It seemed almost timid as he continued: “You can read as well as the High Septon, and write better than I. That’s why I can’t dub you.”

“I can also ride,” Jon interjected, “and fight, and hunt. Those are skills worthy of a knight.”

“A position at court would suit you better,” Jeor said, his voice louder than Jon’s, “both in ability and in name.”

“My father was a _prince,”_ Jon reminded the knight heatedly. As Jeor just stared at him dully, he added: “He still jousted. Why shouldn’t I?”

Jeor’s hand closed on Jon’s shoulder. Through the armour, he couldn’t feel it, but he saw the touch in the man’s eyes - kind, but stern. “You are not your father,” the man said.

Jon’s throat clenched. He stepped away, Jeor’s hand slipping from his pauldron. “But I will be,” he said, his voice a bit more shaky than he wanted it to be. He breathed in. He steadied himself. “I will be,” he said, this time with determination, “if you allow me the chance.”

“I have not yet made my decision,” Jeor said wearily.

“Then make it tonight,” Jon spoke with haste and flung out his arms in exasperation. “Make me a knight and let me fight in the melee!”

“Why is this tournament so important to you?”

“Because-!” Jon paused. His lips snapped together as he stared at Jeon. The words were on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken, but he found he could not force his mouth to cooperate. _Because,_ he continued in his silent mind, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, _it is called in Daenerys’ honour._

Jeon watched him for a minute longer before pushing the helmet into Jon’s hands. “Go back to camp,” he asked, “and take off my armour. I expect it to be cleaned before I return tonight.”

Jon wanted to protest, but one look at the knight told him that he’d pushed his limits already. He took a hold of the helmet with a sigh. “Yes, Ser,” he muttered, and he turned and trudged alongside the edge of the market toward the fluttering canopies ahead.

Waiting for him at camp was Jeor’s son, Jorah Mormont. The man was leaned back in a chair, his feet resting atop a table sticky with ale. As Jon pushed his way through the opening of the tent, he sent him an amused look. “So you’re the thief,” he said as a matter-of-fact.

Jon stopped himself from throwing the helmet at Jorah. Instead he put it on the tabletop, pushing his feet aside with the metal. He meant to make it look like a mistake. The glare he sent him told the man otherwise. “I’m no thief.”

“Taking things without asking is thievery.”

“Your father gave me this armour.”

“Then my father is a fool - it’s too large for you.”

“I’m still growing,” Jon shot back as he pulled off the gauntlets. Jorah’s words still lingered in his mind, and staring down at his hands he suddenly found them small and weak. In fact, with every piece that he removed, instead of feeling grateful at being light and free once more, he just saw his body turn from hard steel to a boy’s soft frame. By the time he had dressed down to his tunic and breeches, the fabric sticking to his clammy skin, he thought he had reversed in age. He was no longer eighteen. He felt _eight._

Jorah sipped a chalice of wine with an amused glimpse to his eyes. “Did you join the tourney?” he asked.

“Only knights can join,” Jon said and, with a certain satisfaction to his voice, mused: “So I guess that means you can’t sign up either?”

Jorah’s eyes no longer gleamed. _A man fallen from grace,_ Jon knew. The man had disgraced his father’s name one time too many to be called a knight. Some lords and ladies still referred to him as _Ser._ Jon, however, pointedly did not. As he moved toward the tent’s opening once more, Jorah called out: “You should wash that.” He gestured at the armour.

Jon looked back at him. “Your father asked that you do it,” he lied.

“He would not,” Jorah said. “I am still his son.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, “and I am his squire, but also related to the King. He would not expect me to do labour.”

“You take me for a fool.”

“If you don’t believe me, you can leave the armour be,” Jon said airily as he pushed through the fabric, “and we can see who your father decides to punish tonight.” It was a gamble - but it paid off. The fabric had barely swung back before Jon heard Jorah scramble toward the armour. With a satisfied smirk, he set off through the market toward the city walls.

The wind was hot, but still cooler than Jon’s skin. He welcomed the bashing breeze against his sweaty frame as he stalked between the stalls. He was offered ale, and sweet bread, and sticky puddings. He refused it all. He only had one thing in mind: _Daenerys Targaryen._

It had been two years since he last spoke to his aunt. When they rode toward the meadow a fortnight ago, Jon had eyed the distant castle with apprehension. Would he still recognise her, he’d wondered at the time. Now, having seen her in the stalls, he knew he was stupid to imagine he could forget. She had always been beautiful, yet sixteen suddenly seemed to be the age of the young and foolish. It was a time when they could laugh and chase each other and act like children still.

_But now, I’m a man,_ Jon thought to himself as he walked through the gates to the bustling streets of the city, _and she is a woman. Boys and girls play,_ he knew, _but what do men and women do?_

The soldiers at the castle recognised him though they paid him no heed. He was still a _Snow,_ and they made sure he knew by turning their eyes away and chattering amongst themselves as if his presence was bothersome. Jon watched them for a few long seconds, taking in their red uniforms and weary faces, before he approached.

“I am here to see my aunt,” he said.

One of the soldiers turned and gave him a strange look. “Don’t know anything about an aunt,” he replied. There was a smile on his lips. In his words, Jon tasted the same mockery that he’d experienced earlier on the field. It was as if stuck in his mind - the rolling laughter, the sneering nobles.

Jon coughed and straightened up to make himself more imposing. It worked better when he was still in his armour. Now, stripped of his steel, he looked like a boy squaring off to a steed. “My aunt,” he repeated, “Daenerys.”

“You mean _her Highness,_ boy,” another soldier said and spat at the ground.

“Highness to you,” Jon said, “but aunt to me.”

“And who are you?” the soldier asked and leaned onto his spear with a bored look on his face.

Jon bit his tongue. He could taste blood in his mouth. “Jon Snow,” he said, “but I think you know that already.”

“No, that doesn’t sound right,” another soldier said, elbowing his friend as they started gathering before Jon. They were taller than him, and held weapons. Still Jon imagined he could get in a few good hits before either of them could draw their swords. He had been trained in heavy armour. Without it, he was as quick as the breeze.

“Doesn’t matter how it sounds,” Jon said. “It’s Jon Snow.”

“No,” the soldier repeated, “I am sure it is _Mormont.”_

Jon sent him an odd look as the other men snickered. “That’s the man I squire for,” he said. His reply made them laugh louder, and he felt a flush take over his cheeks. He wasn’t sure what he was doing wrong, but he sensed he was unwillingly playing into their game. A vein in his neck throbbed. He rubbed it with annoyance as he tried to remain calm. “I squire for Ser Jeor Mormont.”

“That’s it,” one of the soldiers snapped his fingers and flashed a grin at the others, “he’s _Ser Jon Mormont._ I saw him at the Vespers Tourney.” He turned back to Jon and, with a teasing drawl to his voice, asked: “Why did you leave so soon, _Ser?”_

Jon’s face was burning with fury as the men roared with glee. His hands were fists at his sides. They had started to shiver with restraint. “I’m Jon Snow,” he repeated.

The soldier continued: “Did the competition scare you off, _Ser Mormont?”_

“I said,” Jon breathed angrily, “I am _Jon Snow.”_

“I’d be frightened too, Ser Mormont,” another soldier interjected, “fighting against seasoned warriors like _Ser Robin Arryn.”_

“I told you,” Jon shouted, “I am-”

“Jon Snow,” a gruff voice finished.

The soldiers’ laughter silenced at once, and their eyes sought toward the doorway at the gate. It had swung open, and a man stood on the threshold, broad and imposing. His white armour gleamed in the sun, the golden decor on his chest almost blinding. His face was aged and stern, and his eyes carried little kindness when he glared at his men.

“Ser Barristan,” one of the soldiers exclaimed. He was suddenly sweating - Jon could see fat drops of water drag down his forehead from beneath his helmet. “We were just-”

“What would the King say if he knew you were making a mockery of his grandson?” the old guard asked. As the men didn’t speak, he walked toward them, and their group split to make way for him. He stopped before Jon. He eyed him with a neutral expression on his face. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

Jon nodded. It was a pointless question; no man or woman in the whole of the kingdom had not heard about King Aerys’ most trusted men. One was Tywin Lannister, the sly lion. The other was the bold knight before him. “Ser Barristan Selmy,” he said.

The man gestured for him to follow. “I’ll take you to her Highness,” he said. As they walked, the only sound was from their shoes kicking up dirt. The soldiers stood quietly and watched, a gloomy expression on their sulky lips. Jon tried not to appear smug, but he couldn’t help a spring to his step as the commander led him inside the castle grounds.

The old man didn’t speak again until the door had closed behind them. Once the soldiers were out of sight, he glanced back at Jon. “Do not call her your aunt,” he warned.

“But she is,” Jon insisted, sticking his nose up a little.

“I can handle my men,” Barristan said, “but when I’m not around, they handle themselves. Do you think what I said is true?”

“About what?”

“About the King?”

Jon’s nose fell a little and he eyed the floor. Here, in the shadows of the arches, the stone was chipped from servants’ quick footsteps. Walking slowly almost made it hard not to stumble over the cracks. “I know my father’s choices made him less favourable amongst the Targaryens,” he said, choosing his words with care. It didn’t matter to the guard, he knew, but it could to anyone who was to hear them. He could only see the fluttering of maids, and a page boy running in and out between the bushes of the yard. _But here, even the deaf hear tales,_ Jon thought, glancing up. On the balcony above, a woman stood watching him. The moment he spotted her, however, she slipped back inside her chamber. “The King would not care if the men were to make a jest of my name,” he finally said.

“Correct,” Barristan said. His voice had been tense. At Jon’s admittance, though, it softened a bit. “A wound from battle can be healed, but a shamed name takes generations to recover.”

_My sons’ sons will still suffer from my father’s love,_ Jon thought. It was a depressing thought.

Barristan seemed to understand. He slowed, placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “I liked your father,” he said, “and I like you, that’s why I tell you the truth. What you did earlier was foolish.”

“Don’t bother,” Jon said and shrugged off the guard’s hand. “The good _Ser Mormont_ has already taught me a lesson.”

“If he did, you wouldn’t be here,” Barristan pointed out.

Jon suppressed a smile. “Perhaps,” he merely replied.

They walked through corridors, up stairs, and down again, circling marble columns and grand oak trees. By the time they reached the gardens, Jon was hot once more, the shades growing thin now the sun hung high in the sky. Barristan led him down a path of smooth white cobblestones and around a golden fountain until finally they reached a growth of lemon trees. There, amongst branches heavy with the yellow fruit, stood Daenerys.

“Your Highness,” Barristan greeted with a bow. As she turned and smiled at them, Jon’s heart skipped a beat.

From the ground looking up, Daenerys had been beautiful. Now, up close, he could truly appreciate how the years had matured her. Her skin was no longer rugged from growth, but smooth and pale, and her body seemed to fill out her blue garment differently from what he remembered. The fabric hugged her curves and shaped her like a woman. Jon had to avert his eyes not to blush. Unable to come up with anything else, he said: “Your Highness,” too, and he copied Barristan’s deep bow.

Daenerys’ plump lips pulled into a smile. “Dear nephew,” she said, “there is no need for courtesies. Please, it has been so long.” She held out her hands and Jon, feeling watched by the old guard, awkwardly grabbed them and kissed them lightly. The princess chuckled. “I meant to hug you,” she explained.

“Oh,” Jon said, still bent forward. Out of the corners of his eyes, he thought he saw Barristan smile.

The man straightened up. “I will leave you to it, your Highness,” and with a nod from her silver head, he took off, his steps echoing across the yard long after he was gone.

Jon looked after him. He turned back to Daenerys. Still holding her hands, he wanted to apologise for no longer remembering etiquette, but his aunt just stepped in, wrapped her arms around him, and dragged him close. When her nose sunk into his neck, he was sure she could smell his sweat and feel it on his back, his tunic clinging to his spine.

But if she did, she said nothing. She just pulled away after a minute, held him at arms’ length, and smiled: “Did you come to see me?”

“Of course,” Jon stuttered. She smelled of lemons and roses. The scents wafted across his skin in waves as she led him to a bench beneath the tallest tree. He settled with space between them. One of her hands was still wrapped in his. It was soft, and smooth. He felt suddenly ashamed about the rough blisters on his palm. “It is a tournament in your name. I had to come.”

“Had to or wanted to?” Daenerys teased.

Jon blushed as he quickly corrected himself: “Wanted to,” and gave her a quiet smile. In the sun, her coronet shimmered. It almost made it look like a halo was resting around her bright head.

Daenerys cocked her head as she peered at him from between her pale lashes. “I saw you at the tourney,” she said.

Jon’s smile faltered. He pulled his hand back as he shuffled up against the backrest of the bench. He eyed the green grass with spite. “Aye, I embarrassed myself.”

“You are still a squire?”

“I can ride, and fight, and hunt,” Jon rattled off with ease, “and read and even write. I can do everything any of those other knights can do - and _better.”_

“I believe you,” Daenerys replied.

Jon glanced into her eyes. Her violet were kind, and there was no hint of mockery to be found in the way she gazed upon him. _She believes me,_ he thought, his heartbeat picking up. He regretted pulling his hand away.

“Why has Ser Mormont not dubbed you?”

“He wants me to work at court.”

“At court!” Daenerys said surprised. “That’s a lovely idea.”

“It is a punishment,” Jon said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you see? My father jousted, so now no one wants me to do the same.”

“I hardly think that’s true.”

“The other knights laugh at me,” Jon continued with a scowl. The more he spoke, the angrier he became at everything - the sun was too warm and the grass too green and the scents in the air too sweet. He waved a butterfly away before continuing: “Even the squires think I am a fool. They think I am just pretending to be my father.”

“You are not your father,” Daenerys said, and Jon snapped:

“Well, I could be!” He looked at her, and she stared back at him. Her eyes were patient, but her lips pulled slightly downwards. It made Jon’s heart ache. He reached out. He grabbed her hand. He squeezed it. “Forgive me-”

“Why do you wish to joust?” she asked. “My brother never took much liking to battle. He was good at it, but he favoured other things.”

“My father was scorned for who he loved,” Jon said. “We all know how it started.” As he looked into Daenerys’ eyes, he knew she could see it too, playing before her very eyes. Neither of them were alive when it took place, but the story was as real as a memory:

Rhaegar, a winner, with a crown of roses in his hand. He rode his steed up and down the row of spectators, the women all watching Elia as she smiled and waited for her prize. But it was Lyanna who got to don the Winter flowers. It was she who made the prince’s heart ache.

“You wish to joust in his memory?” Daenerys asked. “Jon, he died in exile, scorned by every house of this realm.”

“I wish to do what he did,” Jon said, staring into her eyes as he spoke. He could barely keep still, the blood in him pumping so quickly that his feet jittered and his fingers trembled. He held onto her palm with both of his hands. He squeezed it as he said: “I want to win and profess my love for all to hear.”

Daenerys’ cheeks blushed pink. She stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide. “Jon-” she started, but she didn’t finish. Her mouth snapped shut. She took in a deep breath as she leaned her head back, her silver locks dragging down her shoulders and across her back. She watched the sky. The sun shone brightly into her face. She still didn’t blink. “I wish I could kiss you,” she said.

“People are watching,” Jon reminded her, though he would much rather pull her in, feel her lips against his, taste the sweetness of her tongue. He felt parched. He felt brave. He felt weak. He felt bold. Before Daenerys, he found he could be anything the world demanded of him.

“I still wish,” Daenerys said. She slowly lowered her head again, looking back into his eyes. “Will no knight dub you?”

“And shame his name?” Jon shook his head with a sad smile. “Jeor took me out of pity. He admired my father, and he wanted to do right by his name. But I am not the squire he wanted. In fact, all other men want only to wash their hands clean of my name. Even the King.”

“My father’s love for Rhaegar is well known,” Daenerys said.

“His grandson less so,” Jon replied bitterly.

“Only because you remind him of his loss.”

“He would never knight me,” Jon stated, the ceremony the only goal in his mind. “No knight will dub me, and no royal either. The melee is tomorrow. I should be praying for Ser Barristan to have a change of heart.”

Daenerys watched him carefully. “You truly want to proclaim our love?” she asked.

Jon felt his cheeks grow hot. He glanced back at her. He nodded.

“Then you should pray,” she agreed.

Jon let go of a short laugh. “Aye,” he said, looking down, “I should.”

“There’s a sept in the castle,” Daenerys said, “in the right tower. It opens out onto the street. The people of the city use it during the afternoon, but in the morning it is desolate.”

“He will make his decision this evening,” Jon replied. “Gods will wield no powers once the old man has said his piece. I will not need the sept after tonight.”

“But perhaps you should still visit,” Daenerys said, “should he not wish to knight you.”

“Please-” Jon started as he turned to face her, his voice weary. But once he looked into her glimmering eyes, he saw something that gave him pause. It was as much of a plea as a command. He realised: _she is telling me to go._ Not out loud, should others be listening, but with her silence she spoke her wish as clear as day.

Jon licked his teeth. He nodded. “Thank you, your Highness,” he said, his voice loud and clear, “for your kind words.”

“Always a pleasure, dear nephew,” Daenerys replied.

As Jon took his leave, he kissed her hands again, but this time he lingered at each of her knuckles. The scent of her was still in his nostrils by the time he made his way back to camp.

Jorah was scrubbing away at the armour when Jon returned. As Jon lingered by the entrance, he felt a tinge of guilt in his chest. _Father was scorned too,_ he thought, _but he was still worthy of respect._ After a moment of hesitation, he walked over, grabbed a cloth from the table, and went to work on one of the gauntlets.

Jorah peered at him with surprise. “So the prodigy returns,” he mocked.

Jon fought the need to throw the gauntlet down and stalk back out of the tent. He remained seated, gritted his teeth, and said: “Forgive me, _Ser,_ I forget my place.”

Jorah opened his mouth to speak, and Jon bowed his head in concentrating, awaiting the scolding he was sure to receive. But the man merely huffed: “Oh,” and then continued his work on the breastplate, a small smile on his lips.

* * *

Jon’s real punishment came later that eve.

The sun was setting. Jon watched it from outside the tent, a horn of ale in his hands. As orange and red light spilled across the meadow, Jeor made an appearance from between the market stalls. He walked slowly, his steps tired, his hands shivering. Once he reached the tent, Jon could see his knuckles blushing blue. “Were you in a fight, Ser?” he asked, surprised.

Jeor blew at his hands and rubbed them as he watched Jon. There was a tenseness to the old man’s face that he had scarcely seen before. He reminded him of a haggard soldier returned from war - a winner in name, but not in spirit, having seen too much to even count himself lucky to be alive. “Did you clean the armour?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jon nodded, getting to his feet. He handed Jeor the horn, and the knight took it and emptied it in two big gulps.

Foam clung onto his beard when he handed it back to Jon. “I will not knight you,” he said.

Jon didn’t accept the horn. He stared at Jeor as he held it forth, his arm soon trembling.

“Take it, boy,” he demanded.

“What do I need to do?” Jon asked. He sent him a stubborn look. “When will you make me a knight?”

The man dropped the horn to the ground with a tsk. He drew his hand back and rubbed it again, the bruises changing colour under his fingertips as he encouraged the blood to flow. “If you want to honour your late father,” he spoke, “you should seek a position at court.”

“My father was a fighter.”

“He was more than that.”

“I know he was not afraid.” As Jeor made a move toward the entrance, Jon stepped out in front of him. The man looked down at him. Jon stared back boldly. “Neither am I,” he said. “I will fight in the melee tomorrow, with or without your support.”

“Seen yourself sweet on her?” Jeor asked airily.

Jon blinked. His stance crumbled a bit as he eyed the knight with confusion. “On who?” he asked. From the man’s wry smile, he already knew the answer.

“You have begged to be a knight for years, but you were never this desperate,” the man said as he surveyed Jon. “I knew from the moment the tournament was announced that we were going to have this argument. She’s your _aunt,_ boy. A lovely woman, but destined for someone royal.”

“My father-” Jon started, but Jeor interrupted him:

_“Was a prince,_ I know. We all know. But you are not.” He reached out, and though Jon made a move to step away, he managed to grab him by the shoulders. He held him in place, his grip hard and his voice commanding as he continued: “Becoming a knight will not bring back the dead.”

“I don’t ask to see him,” Jon said weakly.

“No, you ask to become him. You are not your father, and her Highness is not Lyanna.”

Jon took in a sharp breath. His lips shivered. His hands turned to hard, small fists at his sides. _I could hit him,_ he thought, _he has been drinking, and I could hit him, and hit him, and make sure he never rose again._

“Hitting me,” Jeor said, as if reading Jon’s mind, “will only disgrace you, boy. The world remains the same whether I am dead or alive.”

“And whether I am a knight or not,” Jon breathed, “so make me one.”

“Have you heard nothing?”

“Aye, I’ve listened,” Jon said, and he shook Jeor’s hands off his shoulders as he puffed his chest out, staring up at him, “so now you listen to me, _Ser._ You all knew my father, but I have his blood in my veins. He raised me ‘till I was eight, and he taught me to fight, and to stand tall, and not to let my false bastard name shame me.”

“Jon-” Jeor started, but Jon would not let the old man have the last word.

He continued: “I will win the crown, and I will give it to whoever I please, and I will face every house on this field in battle if I must. So all I ask is this: _will you make me a knight?”_

As Jon snapped in air, Jeor’s eyes narrowed in thought. He rubbed his knuckles. He let go of a breath. It sounded like a mix between a huff and a laugh. “You can talk, boy,” he admitted, “but talking alone does not make a knight. You want to fight the world? Be my guest - but it will break your back and leave you for dead just like it did your father. I will take no part in this.”

Jon brushed past Jeor with such force that the old man stumbled to the side. As he marched across the meadow, kicking up the evening dew from the wavering grass, he found it hard not to scream in frustration. He wanted to hit something, _someone._

Jeor called after him: “Do you know why I’m hurt?”

Jon paused. He stared ahead. The meadow was lit with candlelights and bonfires. The flames flickered in the air. It reminded him of dragon-fire. It reminded him of _her._ He turned. He looked back at Jeor. He waited.

Jeor held up his hands. In the dying light from the sun, his skin looked ever so pale, and the bruises as dark as the depths of the ocean. “This was for you, boy,” he said, “and all those mocking words the knights spoke. I am no better than any other fool around this camp, and that is why I know what you are if you leave - _a fool,_ Jon. Not brave, and not bold. Just a _fool_ like the rest of us.”

Jon stuck up his nose. A grin took over his lips. As the old knight’s brows furrowed, Jon said: “I’m not leaving. I told you - I am not afraid. I will do what needs to be done.” With that, he turned, his tunic fluttering in the cool evening breeze as he set off toward the city walls once more.

The meadow was alive; people were drinking, and fighting, and playing games. Some kids had squared off a piece of the field and created a jousting arena, complete with a barrier and lances carved from branches. Jon watched them in passing, saw how they roared insults at each other, and threw fists when their weapons did not reach. _Every boy wants to be a knight,_ he thought as he carried on, his eyes set on the gates, _so why should I be any different?_

The city was busy. Wherever ale was served, men and women gathered in groups, laughing and flirting. Skirts were ripped. Alleys were used by lovers and strangers alike. Jon made sure to avert his eyes as he walked with quick steps toward the castle.

New soldiers were stationed outside. They were all red-nosed and loud. Jon had a feeling that another confrontation would go down as poorly as it had that morning, and this time there would be no Barristan around to help him. Instead of risking his limbs, he strolled past the gate and followed the shape of the castle around to the right tower. It was as Daenerys said; beneath a pair of glass-stained windows, the grand oak door stood askew. After a quick glance around, Jon grabbed a hold of the handle, opened the door, and slipped inside.

The sept before him was cool and empty. Clad in stone and decorated only with seven crude statues, Jon found the place to be unwelcoming. When he breathed in, his lungs shivered in his chest, and when he exhaled, the air escaped in a mist from his lips. He wrapped his arms around himself as he trudged down the small walkway toward the statues, his eyes seeking the candles on the walls. The holders were covered in thick drips of wax. The flickering lights from the flames didn’t reach far. The only thing they seemed to light up was the shape of his shadow - small, huddled, trembling.

Jon forced himself to straighten up. He stopped before the Warrior, the only adornment being two rough jewels embedded in his face. He didn’t remember how to pray, he realised, yet he knew he had to.

_The night before a squire becomes a knight, he must reflect,_ Jon thought as he sunk to his knees, _he must bind himself to the Order of Chivalry, to honour, and to service._ The stone pressed to his legs. He could feel the cool surface of the steps, and when he folded his hands in his lap, he dug his stubby nails deep into his skin as he tried to distract himself with the pain.

But his teeth were chattering. His knees soon ached. He was meant for fighting and moving, he knew, not silent prayer. He was meant for glory, not brotherhood. He was meant for _her._

He saw her: Daenerys, as a child, a pale crown of hair around her head, her smile as bright as the sun. She played with him in the courtyard as his father argued with the King. Aerys’ voice echoed between the stone walls like thunder:

_“Your foolishness has torn my kingdom apart!”_

Daenerys held his hand as Jon climbed the steps to the throne room. She stood by his side as he faced his grandfather. She watched him in awe as he cried: “Do not shout at my father!”

King Aerys had smiled. Back then, he was young and strong, and he stood before Jon like a pillar - unrockable. “You will cause me as much grief as my son,” he’d said. Before Jon could answer, Rhaegar whisked him out of there, his cheeks red with anger.

He saw her: Daenerys, dressed in black, her eyes welling with tears as the flames from Rhaegar’s pyre stretched toward the dark night sky. She looked small, and scared, and though Jon couldn’t stop shaking himself, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

“He loved me,” she cried to his tunic. “He was the only one who ever loved me.”

“No,” Jon replied, kissing her silver locks, “because I love you more.”

He saw her: Daenerys, sixteen and sweet in red. As Jeor and Barristan talked in the shade of the arches, he chased her through the gardens. Their hands touched with innocence, and with purpose. Their eyes spoke truths they knew they couldn’t say out loud. When he caught her, they tumbled into the flowerbeds, his hands on her waist strong, her lips out of breath.

“I want you to kiss me,” she said, her heartbeat so loud that he could feel it in his fingertips. She was blushing and bright and begging. Her teeth nibbled at her lower lip. Her lashes bashed like golden threads in the breeze.

Jon had wanted to. He had wanted to kiss her and more. What this _more_ entailed, he’d only heard whispered then. At taverns, where Jeor left him in his room as he went drinking ale. He would sit and listen to the creaking of beds, the wallowing of women, the deep grunts of men. It felt dirty, he thought, but with Daenerys it would be pure. But he had replied: “People are watching,” and she had nodded, solemnly, the glimpse in her eyes restrained.

“My dear nephew,” was all she could say, holding his head and pecking his forehead. _“My dear knight.”_

Her touch awoke him. Jon stared at the stone steps. His body felt stiff, and his shoulders cracked when he tried to move his arms. His fingers were still intertwined in silent prayer. He found it hard to force them apart. A dusting of dew had pecked his skin. It ran down his cheeks like tears when he turned his head back and peered up.

Through the windows above, the pale morning light was falling in. He could hear the faint chirping of birds, and see the flickering colours glimmer through the stained glass. They pecked the silver hair on Daenerys’ head, lit up her frame, and made him stare in shock.

She stood before him like a deity. Dressed in white and adorned with golden jewelry, she seemed otherworldly against the stark, dull backdrop of the grey stone statues. Her fingertips were on his cheeks. They dragged the water off his skin as she pulled back. When she knelt before him, the hemline of her skirt spilled to his knees. Even through his breeches, he sensed her touch - hot, and loving.

“Were you here all night?” Daenerys asked.

“Am I dreaming?” Jon returned the question.

The Princess smiled. Her lips looked silky, and her eyes were the colour of a sunrise - warm and inviting. “Ser Mormont did not knight you?” she asked and, when Jon shook his head, she reached down and gently nudged his hands apart as she claimed them in her own. “Come,” she urged and stood, guiding him to his feet, “we don’t have much time.”

They hurried through the chapel. Their steps echoed between the empty walls. The candles had long died out. Jon didn’t even see wisps of smoke rising in the air, the puddles of wax on the floor hard. She led him past a side door, down a narrow hall, and through a small castle garden. The fresh morning air bashed to Jon’s face. He felt his hurting body soften in the warm glow from the sun.

As they rounded a corner, the sound of someone marching caused Daenerys to pause. She held a finger to her lips as she slipped behind a stone pillar and Jon, unable to tell where the man was coming from, followed her. They stood close, their breaths mixing and their eyes locked, as someone made their way past on the other side. The soldier’s steps were tired. Jon’s heartbeat was anything but - as his aunt’s fingertips closed at his tunic, felt the shape of his body beneath the thin fabric, he found the beating in his chest to be so loud that they were sure to be heard.

But the soldier marched on. Daenerys smiled. Before he could think to kiss her, she had slipped away, leading him down more halls and through more doors until they reached a quiet room.

The place reminded Jon of the sept - empty, and solemn. Light was scattered through stained glass portraying nameless nobles, and red fabric hung on the walls, covering the cool stone. But instead of a statue at the top of the steps, a chair stood, and across its pillow rested a sword.

Jon paused as he watched Daenerys approach the steps. She picked up the sword by the hilt, raised it as she sat down on the pillow, and then let it fall to her lap. She looked at him. Her eyes glimmered teasingly. “Will you devote yourself to honour, to the truth, and to the Gods?” she asked.

Jon kicked the floor almost bashfully. “I don’t know much about religion,” he admitted, “but I know right from wrong, and I know good from bad.”

“Will you devote yourself to me?”

Jon’s grey eyes snapped from the floor to Daenerys’ face. She was still smiling, but now there was a blush on her cheeks. It was only then it dawned on him: _she intends to dub me._ He felt his throat snare together, his tongue suddenly dry and useless, unable to form a single word. As he stood and stared, Daenerys continued:

“I must know that you will always defend me.”

“Of course,” Jon bluttered. The truth came easy to him. “Always.”

“Then kneel,” Daenerys instructed.

Jon’s eyes slipped to the steps. A green pillow awaited him on the hard floor. He forced his aching legs to bend once more, his knees sinking into the soft fabric. It was a strange feeling, he thought, kneeling before his aunt, the Princess, _her Highness,_ about to take on a title he had believed out of reach just hours earlier. He felt suddenly sweaty. He could smell himself - sweat and nervosity, and feel himself - his heart thumping in his throat, and hear himself - his shivering breathing. He tried to keep it in. It still escaped his lips in puffs of mist.

Daenerys stood. Her grip on the sword was strong. The blade shimmered. Jon focused on the floor before her as she started to walk closer.

“Jon Snow,” she said, and the weapon rose into the air. He felt the metal strike his right shoulder. It seemed as heavy as her words. “You knelt before me as a squire,” she continued. Her voice seemed to fill the room, fill his ears, and fill his courage. As the blade rose once more, turned above his head, and tapped his left shoulder, he could almost not sit still. “But you shall rise as a knight.”

A breath escaped Jon’s lips in a gasp. His eyes rose to Daenerys’ face. She was peering down at him, a tense pride on her face. He wanted to say something. He found no words could explain the tight feeling in his stomach. _My father was a knight,_ he thought, _and so am I._

“Rise, Ser,” Daenerys spoke.

The title sounded strange to Jon’s ears. The last time he was called _ser,_ it had been by the mocking soldiers at the castle gates. Now, he was within the Targaryen stronghold, and he was a knight by noble accolade. He rose. Standing at the bottom steps, and Daenerys at the top, he looked straight into her eyes.

She smiled. She reached out. With the hand not holding the sword, she grabbed his cheek, and pulled him in as she kissed his forehead. “You must hurry,” she said, her voice warm and breathless against his skin. She peered into his eyes with urge. “They are preparing for the melee.”

“I have no armour,” Jon said. It struck him suddenly; the only metal he owned was for training, thin and worn and scratched. It also carried the Mormonts’ black bear. He realised walking beneath their sigil would no longer be appropriate, and found his hands fiddling restlessly at his empty belt. “I have no horse.”

“You are my brother’s son,” Daenerys smiled, and a gleam returned to her violet eyes. “You already have claim to both.”

* * *

The metal shined black in the baking sun. The remaining rubies on his breastplate glimmered. When he rode onto the field, Jon felt every spectator turn and stare at him in shock. The dragons on his chest roared louder than their awed chattering. He straightened up and gave them a smirk through the visor of his helmet.

This main event had drawn a larger crowd than the Vespers Tourney the morning before. Now, the stands were packed, and the ladies’ benches had become a royal stall. As Jon spurred his horse on, the silver mare quick, he could soon lay eyes on them all; Prince Viserys, arrogant and cruel, Princess Daenerys, sweet and bright, and King Aerys, aged and mistrustful. He was sucking on his teeth with a sour look on his face. As his violet eyes caught sight of Jon, however, he noted how they grew in size. His suckling stopped. His bony hands closed tightly around the armrests of his chair.

Lord Petyr Baelish was once more leading the tournament. As the spectators grew quiet, he seemed undisturbed, his narrow eyes focused on the knights already lined up before him.

“This will be a battle between two teams,” he spoke, his voice ringing loudly across the now silent field. “Four knights will battle four knights until one team remains. Only then - and I stress, _only then_ \- will they turn on one another until one winner is announced.”

“I wish to participate!” Jon shouted. Once more, his heavy helmet seemed to trap all sounds and send his warm breath back into his face. But he knew they heard him from the way the other knights turned and stared, their horses neighing in their reins. Even Petyr’s eyes fell on him. As the men parted, Jon rode into their midst, stopped before the whitewashed walls, and repeated: “I wish to join the melee.”

Petyr’s eyes surveyed his armour. Jon made sure to puff up his chest. As the rubies of the dragons danced in the sun, he felt ready to burst with pride.

“I know your armour, Ser,” Petyr said, choosing his words with care, “but not your name.”

“You know my name,” Jon said, and he reached up to his helmet, his gauntlets closing at the metal, and pulled it off. As the sun bashed down on his face and the wind dragged at his curls, and audible gasp went through the audience. Jon saw it on the King’s face too - his eyes bore into his own. “I am Jon Snow.”

A murmur went through the spectators. “It’s the Vespers’ boy!” someone shouted.

“It’s Mormont’s squire,” another called.

Petyr smiled slickly. He folded his hands at his front. He sent Jon a patient look, the kind you give a child who begs for pudding. If Jon was not already hot, he was certain his cheeks would glow with anger at the sound of his clucking tongue. “Jon Snow,” he said, “I thought your good knight already made the rules of the tournament clear. A squire cannot fight.”

“I’m no squire,” Jon said, pushing his chest so much it hurt. He stuck his nose up. “I’m a knight.”

“You’re a fool!” a voice rang. Jon didn’t have to look to know who was approaching. He heard the old man’s heavy footsteps. He avoided looking at him, even as he stepped before the wood and stared up at him. Jeor’s face was red with fury. Spit flung from his lips when he shouted: “How did you get that armour?”

“It was given to me,” Jon replied airily.

“A squire in stolen armour,” Jeor spat. The audience agreed with a cackle. A woman called:

“A jester in metal!” Laughter erupted amongst the common folk.

Jon’s cheeks grew hot as he licked his teeth and glared down at Jeor. “I am not a squire!”

“I have not dubbed you a knight, boy!”

“But I have!”

As Daenerys stood, the laughter was silenced at once. It was as if there were no one else - just her, and him, and the snapping banners high above them. The breeze blew. It echoed through the armour of the knights gathered.

Daenerys pursed her lips. Everyone was looking at her - _everyone but the King._ Jon could still see his violet eyes glaring into his own. He found it hard to look away. “As of today, he is no longer a squire,” she spoke, “but a knight. He is Ser Jon Snow, and he has every right to fight in this tournament if he so wishes.”

Jeor sent her an incredulous look. “Your Highness,” he said, “is it by your grace that he wears this armour?”

“It is by his birthright,” Daenerys calmly corrected the old knight. Her cheeks were pink, but she managed to remain upright and regal. “The armour belonged to his father. It is now his by bequest.”

“And the mare?”

“He rides Silver at my request,” Daenerys continued.

Viserys scowled at her side. “I thought the boy was a joke,” he said and glared up at Daenerys, “but now I see my sister encouraged it. He is no Targaryen. He should not fight under our banners.”

“I hold no banners,” Jon replied.

Viserys’ eyes snapped to his. “Because no house wishes to take you in. Where is the snarling wolf of your mother, _Ser,”_ he scowled, making the title sound like an insult, “did she only leave you with a puppy’s blood?”

Jon’s gauntlets creaked as his hands twisted into fists. He glared back at the prince. “Big words spoken by a man who has never jousted. Do your hands ever tire from emptying chalises, _your Highness?”_

Viserys jumped to his feet, but before he could speak, the King waved his hand. “You,” Aerys said, still staring at Jon, and Jon met his gaze. Sweat ran down his nape. Though he looked on boldly, he felt his heart skip beats as the old King’s voice left his haggard lips: “I always knew - you will cause me as much grief as my son.” He smacked his lips and suckled on his teeth. Then, he pushed Viserys back in his seat as he rose himself. The spectators scrambled to their feet. The knights bowed their heads, and Jeor knelt, his eyes seeking the ground as the King stepped forward.

Aerys paused. His watery eyes sought across the field, the stands, the knights. He looked back at Daenerys. Then he sighed. “My daughter has knighted this man. Call him _Ser,_ and let him fight in the tournament as a man of the Order of Chivalry.” He paused once more, seemingly tasting the words on his lips before he spat: “And let any man who defies my daughter’s wishes face charges of _treason.”_

The wind blew across the silent field. Petyr averted his eyes as he said: “Your Grace, we have just nine knights.” As the King sat down, seemingly paying him no heed, his voice gained some courage. “It would be unwise,” he said, gesturing across the group of men, “to start a battle on an uneven number.”

“Then I will fight, my Lord.” Jeor rose to his feet. For a moment, Jon thought it was the old knight who had spoken, but a clattering of hooves told him otherwise. As he turned in his saddle, he saw Jorah come riding across the field. The man’s lips were snared tightly shut in a grimace that attempted to hide all emotions. But his eyes spoke, and they both chastised and admired Jon as he stopped at his side.

Petyr gave him a peculiar look. “Ser Jorah Mormont,” he spoke unnecessarily. The spectators knew him well.

Viserys frowned. “A knighthood comes cheap nowadays,” he mumbled.

It was clear that Jorah had heard the prince. His cheeks turned ruddy, but he remained straight as he looked past Petyr toward Daenerys. He bowed his head. “Your Highness,” he said, turning his gaze on the King only slowly, “Your Grace. I know there are those who think I should not joust, but I ask that you allow me to join my brother.”

“You call him a brother?” Petyr said.

“I knew the late prince Rhaegar well,” Jorah said. He glanced at Jon as he spoke, and Jon felt his throat knot up. “He was a man of honour, and Ser Snow has served dutifully under my father. If honour and duty does not make a brother, then what, my Lord?”

The King’s bony fingers tapped the chair. “Sometimes,” he said, “blood does not make a family. Very well, Ser, I will allow it this once.”

“Very well,” Petyr copied the King’s response, his moustache trembling slightly. Jon could see annoyance on his face of having been cut short in his speech, but he turned nonetheless and smiled at the men. “Please, good knights, take your positions.”

Jon kicked Silver into a trod, but Jeor grabbed at the reins before he could get far. He gritted his teeth at the man. “I am no longer your squire,” he said.

“You think yourself a man,” Jeor said, “but you’re a boy still.”

“If you intend to insult me, I should remind you of his Grace’s words: _treason.”_

“You will not win,” Jeor said. As Jon tried to wrestle the reins from his grasp, he tightened his hold and lowered his voice. “Your goal,” he said, staring into Jon’s eyes, “should be to survive, do you understand?”

Jon stared back at him. There was not a slither of mockery on the man’s face. In fact, he realised, the old knight had never spoken a cruel word to him. It almost made him feel guilty for having been dubbed behind his back. He leaned down and nodded to show that he’d heard him. “I can fight.”

“So could your father,” Jeor reminded him and let go of the reins.

As Silver trudged toward the edge of the field, Jeor’s words played in Jon’s mind. _I can fight,_ he heard himself say, and Jeor replied: _So could your father._ It seemed like a simple exchange. It still nagged him. _Yes, my father could fight,_ he thought, reminding himself of how he won a crown of roses for his mother. As he turned the horse, he glanced toward the royal stall, now small and distant. He could still see Daenerys as clear as day; beautiful, and waiting. It gave him courage, and he reminded himself: _I am as good as any of them._ He slipped his helmet on. He accepted a lance from Jorah’s hands.

The knight peered at him through his visor. “She is beautiful,” he said, “but she is just a woman.”

Jon clicked his visor up as he gave Jorah a saying look. “She is beautiful,” he agreed, “and she is _my_ woman.”

A horn blared. Shouts erupted from the spectators. Before Jon could think to put his visor back down, Silver set off in a gallop. The mare was quick, her hooves kicking up the dirt and ground as she crossed the field with the same ease as a breeze. Jon grabbed at his shield, pulling it tight to his body as he leaned forward, meeting the bashing wind. It howled through his armour. It seemed to make the metal shiver, and he felt it through his body below. The lance was steady in his hand. The horse made haste between his legs. And Jon thought:

_This is what my father felt._ Excitement, thrill, the quick beating of his heart. In Rhaegar’s armour, he sensed he became one with his late father. He felt his spirit, he sensed his skill, as if every thought the man had ever had on the battlefield still lingered in the metal. The thirst for blood. _The desire for love._

Jon shook the image of Daenerys out of his head. He had to concentrate, he knew, if he hoped to stay atop Silver. The opponents were coming closer. The man before him wore an armour with a great kraken on it. _Greyjoy._ He wasn’t sure who was behind the brooding helmet, but he knew they wanted him down. Their lance was angled low, pointed straight at his chest, and Jon angled his shield and lowered his own lance as they neared the centre of the field.

Hooves trampling. Spectators shouting. Sweat on his lips. The sun on his back. When he felt it, he knew it to be to his advance. With a pull at the reins, he led Silver at an angle, causing the sun to catch the glimmering rubies, the shine blinding the knight momentarily.

Jon struck. He missed his armour. Instead, his lance bore into his shield, the sharp tip scratching off part of the painted beast before he brushed past the knight. It was not nearly enough to tip him, but it did slow him down. By the time Jon had turned his mare and was riding back again, the knight was still tugging at his reins.

_Focus,_ Jon told himself, the sweat now in his mouth like foam, _focus, and hit._

His lance bore into the man’s breastplate and sent him flying off his horse. His shield scattered to the ground. His arms wrapped around his horse’s feet, as if he could drag himself back up into the saddle. But his clamouring was a mistake; as Jon rode past, he saw the knight’s stallion twist and kick, sending its owner into the ground. The man had no time to yield - his squire did it on his behalf. A small boy stormed across the field and tugged at the knight’s arms, shouting for help.

“My Lord, my Lord!” he cried.

Jon had no time for sympathy. _The man wanted me down as well,_ he thought as he turned his mare once more and glanced across the field. He spotted a Frey on foot, sword in hand, squaring off to a knight with a rose on his back. Behind them, two stallions stormed at one another, their speed too great for Jon to make out any coat of arms. Weapons clashed. One of the horses neighed. A lance had struck its head and caused blood to flow from its exposed eyes. There was groaning and wailing to be heard from the spectators, but the knight seemed not to care for his stallion’s pleas. He turned the horse around and forced it into another gallop - aiming straight for Jon.

Jon was at a standstill, and he could not spur Silver on quickly enough. He saw them approach like a nightmare: the man - big and broad, antlers on his helmet, a black stag glaring at him from his breastplate, and his horse - bleeding and whining, its nostrils flared, its mouth drooling. And the lance - sharp, aimed, _hit._

Jon just managed to throw his shield up in time. The lance struck, and the wood split. He heard it, and he felt it; the thrust as he was sent back, his body forced off Silver by the sheer power of the man. He hit the ground with a hammering blow. It echoed in the constraint of his helmet and made blood fill his mouth.

_I am hurt,_ Jon thought, staring through his visor at the sky above, the world spinning, _I am hurt._ But it was just his tongue that he had bitten in the fall. Once he managed to roll onto his arms and knees, he spat the thick blood out through the holes of his visor and pushed it up. He gasped for breath. He spat again. Somewhere behind him, Silver trudged off with a neigh.

The air was heavy with shouts and blood and cheering. Jon heard swords strike and men roar as he pushed himself back onto his feet. Atop a horse, his father’s armour had seemed fitting - it made him feel strong and large. But now, on foot, he could only sense how heavy it was on his young body, and how it wore him to the ground. A few steps made him out of breath. His knees ached. His hand trembled. With no shield to offer him protection and no squire he could call upon for help, all he could do was draw his sword, and take a stance.

The stag returned. _A Baratheon._ Dressed in old knight Jeor’s armour, Jon had thought it a fine house. But now, with three dragons roaring on his chest, it was as if Rhaegar’s hatred filled his body.

_That family dishonoured his name,_ Jon reminded himself and held his sword higher, _they falsely accused him and caused wars across the kingdom. They made jest of my father’s memory._ Jon spat at the ground as the knight got off his steed, faced him, and drew his weapon. _But they will not disgrace mine._

Jon shouted, the flames of dragonfire burning in his throat as he swung his sword at his opponent. But the Baratheon still had his shield, and he easily blocked his blow.

“Come again,” the knight grinned from behind his helmet, “you _bastard knight.”_

Jon clenched his jaw. His ears filled with noise at the mention of his status. _Bastard._ Born to a prince and still _a bastard._ Knighted by a princess and yet _a bastard._ All because his father loved and lost.

Jon drew back his sword. He stumbled backwards. He swung again. He hit the shield once more. The roaring laughter of the anonymous knight echoed in his helmet.

“Your father was useless as well,” the knight said. He was walking forward. His armour shined slickly in the sun. “Shat himself when he died.”

“He did not!” Jon roared. He wanted to push forward, to punch the man, to break his nose -

but the knight was heavy and big, and Jon was small and without guard. When the stag pushed forward, he had to draw back.

“Do you know what I’m going to do, boy?” the knight spat. “I’m going to tear through that chicken neck of yours.”

“You can try,” Jon replied hotly. He held his sword up, but the man knocked it back down with his own steel. He almost dropped it. When he drew it back into the air, he felt like Ser Robin Arryn - ashamed, and unprepared. He clenched his teeth together. He stared at the man with hatred. “I am as great as he was.”

“That’s what I hoped - it’ll make winning easy.” As the knight struck out, Jon’s sword clashed with his. Once, twice. The man grinned: “Do you know what the winner gets? A crown of roses. What Lady do you think I’ll bed tonight as blue petals cling to her hair?”

Jon tasted blood - not from being struck, but from restraining himself. It trickled down his chin. He was as if aflame - furious, and unhinged. “Shut up,” he growled.

The knight pushed up his visor. A laughing face greeted him - twisted and cruel. “I wish my Lord Baratheon had more men loyal to his house,” he said as he stomped forward, his armour creaking with every step, his sword easily blocking Jon’s blows. He was more like an ox than a stag - strong, and bulky.

Though he didn’t want to, Jon had to retrieve - step by step, stumbling blindly, his grey eyes desperately trying to figure out the man’s next moves. He was sweating. He was slipping. The ground beneath his feet was becoming muddy the further afield he drove him. The cheers seemed distant. _He is leading me to death._

“He could have started a rebellion, cut the silver hair of every Targaryen head,” the man went on, “but,” the knight blocked Jon’s blow once more and, lifting his shield, smirked: “I’ll take a head of black curls instead.” He threw his shield forward. It’s metallic edge struck Jon across the face.

Jon didn’t even have time to cry as he fell. The pain flashes across his face. _My stupid visor,_ he thought, realising only then that he’d left it up since getting unhorsed. Blood soaked his skin. He could barely make himself wipe his nose with his gauntlet - it felt sore, and broken. But this was no time to wallow in pain: the Baratheon was on him at once, his heavy body settling across Jon’s blackened armour. He lifted his shield high, and hammered it back down once more. Jon only just managed to roll his head to the side and dull the blow with the side of his helmet.

Another blow landed. Then another. It rang through his head like a city bell. Thoughts scattered in Jon’s head. As he choked on blood, random memories flashed before his eyes:

His father, young and beautiful. He played the harp for him at bedtime, his voice as soft as a woman’s touch. Jon told him he wanted to be just like him when he grew up. “A knight?” Rhaegar had asked.

“No,” Jon replied, “a bard.”

_Bang._ The metal of his helmet started giving in. Jon threw his head to the other side, but the knight just continued, roaring words down at him that he could not make sense of. It sounded like thunder.

_Thunder._ Jon had been scared in the dark woods. The other boys had chased him breathless. But Rhaegar’s hand in his was soft, and his voice soothing when he spoke words of comfort. “I am here. You are safe.”

“They called me a bastard,” he cried to his father.

“They can call you whatever they want,” Rhaegar had replied, “but it doesn’t change your heart.”

“They call you an usurper.”

“An usurper claims power, but I only claim love.”

“For mother?”

“Yes,” Rhaegar smiled, the violet in his eyes like the setting sun, shining through the darkness of the woods, “and for you.”

_Bang._ Jon coughed. He was sure this last blow would kill him. But he didn’t feel it - no tremor in his helmet, no shivering of his metal.

“He yields!” someone shouted.

“He can’t yield! He can’t even _speak.”_

“He yields!”

“His squire must do that for him.”

“He has no squire.”

“Then he must suffer.”

“One more blow, and you will feed the fires tonight!” The last voice was of a woman. Her fury cut through the noise. Jon heard her as clear as day. He felt her too - her soft hands grabbing at his helmet, dragging it off, letting him breathe.

The air was hot. The sun was hot. The blood was hot. His skin was hot. Jon was drowning in the sensation of heat, of fire. He imagined it licking up his chest from the dragons upon his armour. The few scattered rubies still left from when Rhaegar battled Robert were sure to be gone, he thought, one dropping with every bash to his head. He wasn’t sure why it mattered. Perhaps because it was the last memory he had of his father.

_No,_ Jon thought as soon as the idea struck him. He tried to blink. He couldn’t - blood had thickened his lashes and locked his eyes off from the world. _No, it is not the last memory. What I thought I knew was false. The rage I felt in his armour was my own. My father was a fighter, but he was also a lover. He loved my mother. He loved me. And I-_

Someone brushed Jon’s face. He felt the dried blood being wiped from his eyes. As he blinked, he saw her:

A Goddess, with silver hair and a golden coronet for a halo. Her eyes were large, and her cheeks wet with tears, and her lips trembled when she touched him.

_-and I, I love her,_ Jon thought.

“Jon?” she called. Daenerys’ hands pulled at him, dragged at his lips, tore at his armour as if she could rip it off his very body. “Jon, can you hear me?”

Jon smiled. He coughed. He tried to reach up, tried to touch her, but his hand felt heavy. He was tired.

“He needs rest,” someone said. The blurry image of Jeor hovered above him. The man looked breathless, but certain. “He will be fine, your Highness. He just needs rest.”

“You are such a fool,” Daenerys sobbed, stroking Jon’s curls aside, allowing his face to bask in the sun, “and I am too for letting you fight.”

Jon coughed again. He tried his hand once more. This time, his gauntlet lifted off the ground, and Daenerys grabbed it, pushed it to her chest. It hurt. It felt good. Jon whispered: “I won.”

“No,” Daenerys said, and she sobbed again, but with a smile. “No, you didn’t. But you fought well. You fought so, so well.”

Jon closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. Daenerys was still above him, but he felt a passing of time. More men had gathered. Some were talking amongst themselves. She was still holding his hand, tight. “I won.”

Daenerys shook her head. “No, Jon, I’m sorry. You didn’t win. It doesn’t matter. It was just a melee.”

Jon pushed his hand to her chest, stronger, until he could feel her heartbeat echo in his gauntlet. He smiled a tired smile. “I won,” he said, and before Daenerys could stop him, he continued: “Because I got the woman that I wanted.” Jon saw them:

Rhaegar, and Lyanna. His father, and his mother. Their fingers intertwined, their lips touching. She, the crown of roses on her head. He, her very life in his hands. And Jon realised: “What is battle to a woman’s touch?”

Daenerys’ lips tugged back. She looked like she was going to weep. But from the shivering in her plump lips, Jon knew it was from happiness. “I want to kiss you,” she said.

“People are watching,” Jon croaked.

“Then let them watch.” She leaned down, and she kissed him, and it was the sweetest Jon had ever tasted.

He thought: _I might be a fool. But so was my father. And fools love the best of all, because they dare to feel._

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this, so I hope you liked the story. If you did, please let me know in a comment below. Feedback is truly what keeps me writing - as well as DragonandDirewolf drawing! Can we just take a moment to admire the stunning artpiece based on The Accolade by Edmund Leighton? I'd take a knighthood just to kneel at that woman's feet.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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